The new windows are in, and I’m in love with them. They’re floor-to-ceiling, and each is split into nine panes, giving the house the original charm it would have been built with almost two hundred years ago. The hardwoods will go in after we paint, which is good because Declan is a messy painter.
“You’ve dropped more on the floor than you’ve managed to roll on the wall,” I comment lazily and continue to paint the trim around the window, my back to him.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” he says, just as lazily.
“You heard me.”
“You want to criticize my painting?” he asks. He’s closer to me now, but I resist the urge to look over my shoulder to see what he’s doing.
Bad move.
I suddenly feel two drops hit my head and I whirl around, my brush out, and paint a perfect stripe over the middle of his chest, also getting one arm marked as well.
He looks down, then up at me and cocks a brow.
I’m in trouble. Think fast.
“You dropped paint on my head.”
“You painted my chest.”
“And your arm,” I add, then bite my lip so I don’t laugh.
“This was my favorite T-shirt,” he says, stalking after me as I back away from him.
“You have a hundred black T-shirts,” I point out reasonably, but his eyes narrow, and I know that unless I think fast, I’m going to end up with paint rolled down the front of me.
So I stop backing away and stand my ground. I drop the brush on the floor and hold my hands up. “I’m not armed.”
“Have you ever looked at someone and thought, I just want to treat her like no one else ever has?” he says softly, completely throwing me for a loop.
He lowers the roller to his side, but continues to stare at me, as if he’s trying to decide what to do with me, but he doesn’t have a chance to follow through because I pull myself together and step forward, press my breasts to his chest and slide my hand under the waistband of his jeans, grinning when I cup his cock and find him already hard.
“Me painting you turns you on?” I whisper against his lips.
“You just breathing turns me on,” he replies softly, then closes his eyes as I pump him twice before unfastening his jeans and letting them drop to his ankles.
“How convenient,” I say as I squat and lick him from root to tip. “No underwear.”
“I do what I can,” he replies and drops the roller. Paint spatters on my pants and arm, but I don’t care. “I had you an hour ago, and I want you all over again.” His voice is hard. I glance up as he buries his hand in my hair and tightens his fist, holding it firmly.
“I haven’t done this in at least a day,” I reply and take him deeply into my mouth, sinking down until the tip reaches the back of my throat, and I swallow, massaging him and making me growl in pleasure.
I grip the shaft with my lips and pull up, drag my teeth, barely touching him, over the head.
“Fuck.”
“I am,” I reply with a nod and make the motion again. I cup his balls in my other hand, massing all of him now, balls, shaft and head, and suddenly, he reaches down, pulls me to my feet and spins me around, pinning me against the wall.
His face is intense now, my playful man replaced by someone I’ve only recently found. He’s possessive. Intense.
And makes me instantly wet.
In the blink of an eye, he has my jeans unfastened and peeled off my legs, and he’s pinned my hands above my head with one of his larger ones.
“I never stop wanting you,” he says, his lips grazing over my mouth. “I want you everywhere, in any way I can have you.”
“You can have me anytime you want,” I reply and take his lip in my teeth, tugging hard.
His free hand slides between my legs. “This is mine, Calliope.” His fingers push through my wet lips and into my pussy as his thumb presses on my clit. “Mine.”
“Yours.”
“No one has ever wanted anything more than I want you,” he says and drags his lips down my jawline to my neck. My back arches as he nibbles on my sweet spot. Jesus, the things this man can do with just his hands and lips should be illegal in Louisiana.
But thank the good Lord they’re not.
“I want you just as much,” I reply, panting now as he drives me mad with that magical hand. Before I know it, I’m shattering into a million pieces, and the only thing keeping me upright is his body and hand, playing puppet with my pussy.
“Incredible,” he murmurs, nibbling at my lips. “Now it’s time to stop being lazy and get back to work.”
“You’re not going to fuck me?” I ask, surprised.
He smiles widely. “Disappointed?”
“No,” I lie, but he catches my chin in his fingers and lifts my gaze to his.
“No lying. Ever.”
“Not disappointed,” I reply. “Surprised.”
“Trust me, I’m going to fuck you later.”
***
It’s almost closing time. Adam’s out overseeing the cleanup, giving the servers direction while I sit in the office, staring at my dad’s ledgers.
I found them in a drawer that I hadn’t bothered to open before. They go all the way back to when he and Mom bought the place until the week he died. Dad always was old fashioned, so having a computer to keep these records in wouldn’t have occurred to him.
Every inventory entry is here, in his precise handwriting. As the years passed, and his drinking got worse, the entries are a little wobblier. It all seems pretty standard, except the amount of Chivas Regal Scotch he had on order every month.